The Flame Dragon
by CrookedBarbarian
Summary: Another glass. Half a bottle gone. It would never be merciful enough to let Dalton McGinnis die. She didn't want mercy. Mercy was too kind.


The bottle of red wine clinked against the table as she set it down, the noise somehow too loud in the emptiness. She stared at the glass of dark red liquid as her mind spun. The feeling of his weight on top of her. The sheets in her mouth and the certainty she was suffocating. His body pinning her down. Vertigo, as her boyfriend shoved her onto the bed, deaf to her protests, her questions. The sound of his sharp, accusing voice as they began to argue. Slick, warm blood on her fingers from where her palm had snapped his nose. For what felt like hours, she'd been so confused, disoriented from shock. Her heart feeling like it would break her sternum from its pounding as she realized-

She took another sip, wishing it would burn more. Instead, it left only sweet tartness on her tongue. It seemed almost too soothing for this-

The memory twisted and she saw another girl, a different brunette, pinned under him like a dog. Had he stuffed sheets down her throat too? Prickling, icy numbness worked its way down her arms. Had he closed his hand around the girl's throat and told her to be quiet or he'd kill her? Her hand shot to her throat, to rip away his fingers, to break them- But found nothing more there than her own skin. **Tipping** her head back, she swallowed the rest of the glass, letting the tartness slip down her throat with that slight, tell-tale burn. Why couldn't it hurt more? She wanted to swallow fire. She tipped the bottle over the glass and watched the dark liquid spill in, not quite red, not quite purple.

Purple like bruises. Burning between her legs that had lingered with her for weeks from how he had viciously forced himself inside her. What had she done to make him so angry? That fire between her legs as he-

Hate and rage and blood lust had clawed inside her, nearly eaten her alive because of him. But she had taken that hate and made armor from it; she had used it to make herself stronger, far stronger than he could ever become.

Her fingers clenched around the stem as she thought of Megan Hennessy and the hundred bright pills she'd spilled onto the kitchen floor - the guilty, almost panicked look as she found her. The girl's weakness burnt her like the end of a cigarette, twisted her insides with disgust. Even as she understood that pain all too perfectly, the helplessness the girl had let herself succumb to reviled her.

Two years ago. Megan would have been nineteen. Eyes falling closed, her hand shook as she took another sip. She could feel the elegant glass threatening to snap under her fingers. What would have become of her, if she had been a slightly lesser woman? If she had let McGinnis break her - the way he had so thoroughly broken Megan?

She refilled the glass, a few drops threatening to slosh over the side. How much had she drunk? She shook her head. It didn't matter.

Clearly, he hadn't stopped at her - or started with her, in all likelihood. The Second Lady was just another link in a very, very long line of women _he_ couldn't control. Three decades worth, if the girl was right, and Claire had every reason to believe she was.

Another glass. Half a bottle gone.

Her vision blurred at the edges for a moment, turning into smudges of light and darkness. Rage uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, spreading flames that licked through her limbs. So many times, she had imagined killing him, watching the life leak from his eyes as the blood drained from his body. Three decades of scenarios, of fantasies, and yet she'd never found one that satisfied that rage enough. It always demanded more. Killing him seemed too mundane, too easy. Until she sat in her living room with a nation trained on her every word, and that had felt so utterly, deliciously perfect. After more than half a lifetime, it had almost seemed too easy. She'd opened her eyes again and sent the monster of flame she kept curled inside her hurtling after him, burning with such intensity that she herself almost felt consumed in its fire. And now he would pay. The wrath she had kept in chains all these years, learning to release it only when it suited her, would at last incinerate him alive. But it would never be merciful enough to let him die. She didn't want mercy. Mercy was too kind.

At the sound of footsteps, she spun too fast towards the door and sent the glass crashing to the ground off the island, where it shattered in dozens of glinting, jagged pieces.

Dazed, she smiled apologetically at Meecham.

"Sorry I'm a little drunk."


End file.
